My Husband Sent Me A Christmas Gift From Dubai. The Office Janitor Saw The Ribbon And Told Me Not To Open It. She Might Have Just Saved My Life.
The Science of the Trap
I gave a bitter laugh and tossed the file onto the table. His calculations were so meticulous, so cruel. He valued the life of his loyal wife less than the meaningless numbers on a betting screen. He was ready to push me to my death to trade my life for his own financial freedom. A man this cold-blooded and soulless, I could no longer call him my husband. I could no longer even consider him human.
I called Zola, my voice cold and decisive. “Zola, I have all the proof of his motive now. What we need is evidence of his method. We need to see the person you mentioned.”
Zola understood immediately. “Don’t worry, Miss. He’s always been tormented by that cold case from years ago. He’ll help us.”
As arranged by Zola, I went to meet Detective Beckett on a late afternoon in a quiet tree-lined street. Beckett was a retired homicide detective who had handled the case of Zola’s daughter years ago but had been forced to close it due to a lack of evidence. His house was modest and tidy, but what stood out was a small study filled with books and old forensic equipment, a corner where he continued his quiet quest for justice in unresolved cases.
Beckett, a man with white hair and sharp eyes behind his reading glasses, greeted us with a somber expression. When I placed the charred fragments of the gift box which Zola and I had retrieved from the river on his desk, he carefully put on a pair of gloves and used tweezers to examine each piece under a magnifying lamp. The room fell silent, the only sounds the ticking of an old wall clock and my own anxious breathing.
After a long moment, Beckett looked up, took off his glasses, and looked directly at us, his gaze serious. “Young lady, you were incredibly lucky. This was no accident, no simple fire caused by a short circuit or natural chemical reaction. In this debris, I found a tiny fragment of piezoelectric ceramic.”
Seeing my confused look, Beckett explained further. “Piezoelectric ceramic is a special material. When subjected to mechanical stress, like being bent or struck, it generates an electric spark. The person who made this box designed an extremely sophisticated trap. He attached this ceramic shard to the lid and the ribbon. The moment you lifted the lid or cut the ribbon, the force would trigger the spark, igniting a highly flammable and toxic chemical mixture packed inside.”
He paused, his voice lowering with sorrow. “Years ago in Dalia’s case, the fire destroyed the scene so completely that we never found a piece of the trigger mechanism. He used that loophole to stage it as an accident caused by an exploding aerosol can. But this time, because you threw the box into the water, the temperature change was less extreme and the explosion didn’t completely obliterate everything. It left us this precious piece of evidence.”
Baiting the Lion
A cold dread washed over me as I imagined myself excitedly opening the gift and being consumed by that ghastly green flame. He didn’t just want to kill me; he wanted to erase every trace, to turn me into the unfortunate victim of a freak accident. He was a demon in human form, intelligent and educated, but he used his knowledge to take the lives of the women who loved him.
Zola sat beside me, burying her face in her hands, her body shaking with silent sobs. “Oh God, my Dalia. She died such a horrible death. He’s a monster. How could he be so cruel?”
Beckett patted her shoulder comfortingly, then turned to me, his eyes resolute. “Now we know how he does it. But to catch him in the act, we need direct evidence of him attempting it on you. This ceramic piece proves the box was a bomb, but he could deny it, claim he bought it from someone else or that it was swapped without his knowledge.”
I clenched my fists and looked at Beckett. “What do I have to do, Detective? I can’t let him get away with this.”
Beckett looked at me, his gaze deep and searching. “Are you willing to take a risk? We need a trap to catch this beast. And you… you’ll have to be the one to walk into the lion’s den.”
I lifted my head and met his gaze, all hesitation gone. “I can do it, Detective Beckett. I already died once on that riverbank. This life I have now is for getting justice. Tell me what I need to do.”
Beckett nodded, a look of respect in his old eyes. “We’ll have to fight fire with fire.”
He began to lay out the plan, his voice calm and steady. “His failure this time will make him desperate. But his greed and his debts will push him to try again, and the next attempt will be even more cunning. We need to give him an opportunity, one that looks too good to pass up, so he’ll expose himself.”
The plan was for me to pretend to have a complete mental breakdown, to fall into a deep depression from overwork and loneliness. I would create the image of a weak, unstable wife who desperately needed her husband’s protection. This would play into his fake hero complex and, more importantly, create the perfect cover for a staged accident or suicide.
“You have to make it believable,” Beckett instructed. “Use your social media. Complain, act erratically. He’s watching you very closely, I’m sure of it. When he sees that the prey is wounded, he won’t be able to just sit back in Dubai anymore. He’ll have to come back to finish the job.”
Zola took my hand; hers was warm and rough. “Miss Sloan, Detective Beckett and I will be behind you every step of the way. I’ll quit my job at the building and find a way to get close to your apartment to support you. We’re a team. You are not fighting alone.”
